Fourteen Nights
by redeaths
Summary: The fourteen nights Christine spends in Erik's captivity. The nights of horror, despair and admiration in her own words.


**A/N: I've always wanted to read about those two weeks Christine spend at Erik's house that Leroux never told us about. One thing he points out in his narrative, however, is that Christine wrote while there and wrote exclusively to Raoul. I highly doubt she actually expected these letters to reach Raoul, or if she even knew what would become of those said letters. In the end, Erik apparently has the letters still in his possession and gives them to Daroga. Who knows if Erik ever did read them himself (I like to think he considerately wouldn't) or he ever told Christine he kept them?**

**Anyway while the mystery of those letters and its contents are things to ponder, it doesn't stop me from imagining what they would say. Or what ever _did_ happen in those two weeks of "horror,despair and admiration".**

**I hope you guys enjoy it and a thousand thank yous to Julia,who read this in its crappy stages. You are fine lady.**

* * *

Raoul,

I have made a terrible mistake.. My greatest folly yet.

I am ever so frightened! I am crying, but more out of anger than of fear! I am so angry at myself and at the world. Oh, because what kind of world punishes innocence while allows villainy and trickery to prevail? What kind of loathsome world gives my broken soul a chance to fly only lock me once more in that empty cage I had escaped from? What world! Oh, God, would it be so awful to die?

Forgive me for writing such things. But wait, I hear a noise at the door! Yes I do! No, it must be the wind. Oh, there is no wind down here. How silly of me! My imagination is playing tricks on my poor mind! He wouldn't dare. Oh, God, if you'd seen his face. His face…

Frankly, I do not know what I'm writing. I feel I know even less _why_ I am writing. But I am writing so I must continue. Who knows if this letter will ever reach you, or if you shall ever know of the tragedy that my life has become. My circumstances are so grim, so dark and so terrible it pains me just to write about them, but, oh, I must! After all, in the solitude of this room, who else can I share my feelings of terror with except for a piece of fine parchment, a bottle of ink, and the pretend comfort of a friend?

Oh Raoul, forgive me, I have been a golden fool! It _is_ all a great big lie. There is no Angel of Music. There is no such childish thing! _There's only Erik_. Oh, just writing his name provokes a mixture of great fear and pity in me; you would never understand. He's such a sad creature, but even more loathsome and terrifying! Oh he scares me to death-and yet, I pity him. Oh, how silly it must all sound to you but if I could only explain… Let me quickly explain the events that lead me into this awful labyrinth of a nightmare.

First, I am highly to blame for my current state, I will not deny that. It was I who followed the Voice through the mirror. Yes, Raoul, I! I walked through the mirror, half in a daze, half with a sane disposition. But, alas I did not find the Voice! Instead there was a man, a man dressed in shadows, and he took me down below the cellars, to some corner of darkness and hell. That is where he lives! Beyond the Opera's cellars, beyond the lake, he lives there! He has a house, a house in which I am currently residing. The house isn't as awful as you might imagine. It was covered in flowers, roses and other kind of common flowers you find at markets. It was all for me, I was sure, for I am not foolish enough to pretend men get flowers for themselves. Oh, Raoul, I was so miserable when I began to realize it all. When I saw him kneeling at my side, I _knew_ the reality of the situation. He was no Angel; he was a man! And I cried. I cried so much for my poor, mad self, and for that silly child who still believed in angels and fairies dancing in the fields of the North. I cried for her the most.

Then, he spoke. With his voice half in grief, half in fear, he confessed to me his farce and his folly. Not only was he not an Angel of Music but a man named Erik, who was deeply in love with me! Can you even fathom that? He had the horrible audacity to profess his undying love for me while holding me captive! I was shocked, I was disgusted! I was certain I had fallen into the clutches of a mad man! I told him with a firm voice that he was to let me go if he truly loved me. And of course, he offered to let me go, he would show me the way out! But instead of doing that…he sang, in that voice of his, that angel voice of his, and I stayed. I fell asleep. I write this in shame. How could I do such a thing? In such deadly circumstances, how do such a foolish, irresponsible thing? But I did, Raoul. I did! That was my first mistake. My other much more terrible mistake comes later.

I woke the next morning to a note that said that_ I_ (presumably he believed I had been inclined to stay due to my desire to hear him sing. I believe my host likes to make too many assumptions about my disposition to things and therefore you should disregard him) had showed him my true feelings when I had stayed, and he added that he had many great things prepared for us. Imagine my horror! I was merely a victim underground; living in a golden prison with a man who was also the Phantom of the Opera. Yes, Raoul, my captor was indeed the Opera Ghost, the same entity who condemned Joseph Buquet to an untimely death. But alas, the Ghost was not truly a ghost but a real living man and I feared for my life even more!

I began to pace frantically across the room, cursing myself and banging my head against the wall. It now seems silly to recall it, but I was not well earlier this morning. Waking up in an unknown room with a murderer who has you at his mercy, can you blame me for my frantic state of being?! I suppose you would not, you are a very kind and good friend and would agree with me that the state of the situation would make anyone go mad! Indeed, I was beginning to feel madness crawl all over me. That was the moment my captor returned and brought me gifts.

He was angry to see me unpresentable and said in a way that was ever so alarmingly _normal_ that I was to dress and join him for lunch. Lunch! Dress! And Raoul, he said this in such a polite way that it was almost as if the entirety of the affair was consensual and I had agreed to such an event. That made me so angry! The audacity to come and act as a gentleman when he held me prisoner; I couldn't bear it! I slammed the door in his face as he left and turned to face the extensive selections of dresses he had brought me.

I wish I could tell you I felt guilty over fawning over the dresses but I am not. I picked the loveliest of dresses and tried to pretend none of this was really occurring and that I was actually going somewhere nice. Somewhere with you, perhaps! Oh, I wished my imagination had been more powerful, for I quickly broke down and began sobbing. I attempted to recollect myself by making an empty promise to this fix my awful situation. I had to remain sane to find a way out!

I bathed in such calmness and tried to piece back together the events of last night. I replayed everything over and over in my head looking for something, something that would get me out of this hell. Perhaps he had said something? Maybe in his words I could find an escape clause to this hellish contract of an affair! Alas all my solutions seemed futile because when I came out of my bath I found my eyes lingering on a pair of scissors. I figured I would end my life at once if my aforementioned captor stopped being a gentleman and dared lay a hand on me! You must understand me, Raoul, for in that moment my thoughts could not give any other sense of hope. What else was I to do?

I stepped into the diner with my heart racing and greeted my captor with the same politeness he had bestowed to me earlier. He asked me to sit and brought about food. My appetite was surprisingly still good and I ate well. He did not eat anything but rather sat across the table with an eerie quietness. I, in fear and unease, attempted to make small talk but he would not have it. I have never met a more miserable person in my entire life! He is absolutely dreadful at casual conversation, but I did my best and I did manage to get a few things out of him.

He promised he would only keep me five days and after that I was free to go. This gave me little to no relief but it did lessen the weight in my stomach. In five days I would be far from this tomb and far from him! Although, the thought was not entirely true. My captor had also stated that in those five days I would perhaps learn to appreciate him and I would visit him "from time to time". I confess I still _had_ the intention of visiting him for the sadness in his voice had consumed me with grief. I supposed I would visit him out of pity more than anything. Oh, despite the awfulness of the situation I pitied the poor soul very much. And after all, in some way or another, he was still my Angel of Music and I had not forgotten the power and kindness of the Voice.

He also confessed that he knew how gruesome it was to try to make someone love you in such a place (as I told you before, I suspected he was trying to romance me in his own terrible way) but he stated that one should take opportunities when they arise. I shook my head in disagreement, but he took no notice of it. He hardly looked at me. For someone who claims to be in love with someone as he does, he does not show it. He spent the entire dinner avoiding my gaze, which made me feel more uncomfortable than ever. He finally did something relatively normal and host-like by offering to show me around his house. I agreed but screamed when I touched the hand he offered me.

It was merely his fingers but oh, I can assure you it's not an understatement when I say he was cold as death! And he felt like death, too! His entire being reeked of a presence of death, just his touch itself gave me shivers. The sudden, and careless, display of repulsion made my host quickly apologize. Yet instead of feeling grateful for his sincere apology, I felt guilty for rejecting him such a way. Still, we made way through his house and he offered to show me his room. Now, I understand that under _other_ circumstances that proposition would be most indecent! But you must not think badly of my captor, for I don't think he meant to be taken that way. To be quite honest, I don't know if he even understood how _incredibly indecent_ the proposal could sound. He seems oblivious to such things. Nevertheless, when I stepped in his room…for a moment I was confused and thought it to be an elaborate joke. The place was not a room, but a funeral parlor! It was draped in black with macabre curtains and in the center of it, drawn back red velvet drapes revealed a black coffin. It was his _bed_, he said.

You probably can imagine my horror, friend. Oh, how I tried to hide my disgust and contempt! It was futile, for my host quickly stated that the coffin reminded him of his inevitable death. Despite the morbidity of his words, I admit I regarded the thought as quite noble, even brave. To welcome death, well, that is surely a rare but admirable thing. Most of us spend our lives running away from death but here lies Erik in his black coffin and velvet drapes welcoming death with open arms. It's eerie but it's also very valiant in its own twisted way. I respected him for that, I supposed.

Just then an enormous organ caught my eye. Despite the size of the organ, my eyes fixated on the stack of papers scribbled in ink the color of blood. He noticed where my gaze had drifted and said he did a "little composing". I can hardly call it "little" composing! The organ was almost covered in the papers, and their blood-colored ink made the view no less gruesome. I tilted my head and asked ever so naturally if he would like to play something for me. Instead of making my captor fill with glee at an opportunity to impress me, there was a sudden bitterness in his voice as he stated I must never ask that of him!

Such was the horror in his music, he said, that it would surely rupture my soul and burn my insides. I do believe he was being overdramatic but I did not question him, for the tone in his voice frightened me. He then said that we should sing and that we should sing "opera music". We began a duet. Here is where my second folly comes. It was my most fatal mistake; the mistake that has now cost me my freedom.

I have omitted one thing in my narrative to you, Raoul, and that is that my captor had been masked the whole time. When I had asked to see his face, as proof that his feelings were genuine and his actions were honest, he cried out that I should never see his face. At first I thought it was merely another trick of his to keep me from knowing the true face of the Voice, and now captor. I thought it was a precaution, a gimmick, a formality, a secret! Oh, how terribly wrong I was, Raoul!

Our duet was from Othello and we sang, I as Desdemona and he as Othello in his black mask. As we sang and soared to new heights of passion and despair, the song began to mimic our current situation. I sang just like Desdemona, scared and at the edge of death, and as angry and merciless as Othello. It was a song that drove us to the pits of doom and aroused desire in me. In a sudden madness and with morbid curiosity, just as Desdemona once did, I could not contain myself and had to see the face of my murderer and my captor. Unable to control my hand by will, I tore his mask off and exposed his face.

Oh the horror! The horror! It gives me shivers to write of it, to think of it! There are no words to describe what I saw. His face, it was not a face! He was truly made of death. His face was no more than a skull with sunken eyes and a lipless mouth. He had no nose! He was something made out of nightmares, no monster could ever compare. Oh, and the chilling scream he let out. It was almost inhuman!

I fell to my knees instantly, in horror and despair. But that did not stop him from coming to me! He yelled at me, cursed at me, forcing me to look at his ugly face, pulling my hair in such a way to face him. At the height of the nightmare, he began to laugh maniacally and asked me if I thought he was wearing another mask. Of course, I did not think such a thing, but it did not matter to him. He took my hands and asked, no, he _pleaded_ me to help him take the mask off. He took my hands with his own skeletal ones and made me scratch his face, digging my nails into his horrid flesh. Oh, Raoul, how it sickens me to remember! Me scratching at his cadaverous form while he cried out with glee and finished his frightful laughter by turning it into gut-wrenching sobs. He crawled away as I lay there on the floor, frozen in shock.

I stayed there for a while, no longer crying but shaking with uncontrollable fear. A clear thought came to me: the scissors! I could end our nightmare once and for all! The thought filled me with such relief, I would no longer have to look at the corpse who filled me with terror and who would haunt me forever with words of love! Oh, he had said so himself that he would _never_ leave me! That I had broken my promise when I looked at his face! I would stay by his side an eternity! I did not want that, I would rather die than live with a corpse made of dead who brought about the purest horror in me. And so the scissors were my answer. I rose up and began to race to my room when I heard it.

_It was the sweetest and saddest of music!_ And it was coming from Erik's room! Surely he had turned to his _Don Juan Triumphant_-his musical piece-for comfort. The music filled my soul with something that incredibly obscure and difficult for me to describe. But it had such an effect on me! It took me through despair, hurt, loneliness… I saw him banging his head against the wall, all alone in a world that had never wanted him and could never appreciate him, alone in a room of darkness where his soul and music would remain shut to the world forever! And then the music took a turn. _It was the sound of love_. I have never heard love in music before, but I _knew_ it was love. It had to be! It was if Erik had poured all his feelings into the music and now his emotions echoed powerfully through it. I saw Ugly look at the face of Love! And it was fearless! It was the music's feelings of hope, of triumphant love, of genuine pure soul that evoked in me a sudden strength and shook me to my core. I dared not think of the scissors any longer; instead, despite myself and my better judgment, I went into his room!

I announced with courage that I would not be afraid of him any longer, and that if I ever trembled when I looked at him it would be out of the sincerest respect, not fear! Such brave words they were! Lies! But he believed me for he fell to his knees, crying at my feet and whispering words of love. He kissed the hem of my dress and he did not see how I dared not look at his face. The memory of it brings me to shame. He truly believed I would not fear him. How could I lie to him such a way? It had been the music and I had trusted myself far too much. I was not brave enough to face the living corpse that he was…but he believed me. And in that instant that was enough for both of us.

I finally managed, kindly enough, to tell him to let go of me, for he was still holding onto my legs and weeping. He did as I bid and then I, with pretentious heroism, took his black mask and with a candle from his organ set it on fire. He watched in awe and I fed off of it for I even announced that he should _never_ wear a mask in my presence. Now I curse my words. He only responded with more crying and more crawling by my feet. I thought it would never end until I came up with the excuse I was exhausted and wished to retire to bed. He, in love and childish devotion, said that yes, I should go to bed and he bid me goodnight. But we certainly did not part without him kissing the hem of my dress for the fifth time that night. It made me feel guilty for I was hardly lethargic but I had to get away from him and his wretched face!

I now sit here writing to you incredibly worn out from the horrid events of tonight. I hardly know if this letter will ever reach you. What is to be my fate? How will I face him tomorrow? How will I look at his face and continue my own little farce? Will I stay with him forever, locked up in his tomb of love? I cannot tell, my friend.

For now writing to you, or pretending to write to you, keeps me sane. I miss you dearly, Raoul. I hope and I _pray_ to see you again.

Goodnight,

Christine


End file.
